


A Day of Remembrance

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anticipation, Birthday, Birthday Presents, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Caring, Consideration, Disappointment, Eventual Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Gift Giving, Hope, Hugs, Hurt, Introspection, Loneliness, Misunderstandings, Multiple Selves, Nostalgia, Oblivious, Protectiveness, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Surprises, Walks In The Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 15:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13592898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: Five years ago today, the Author was born. These days, the Host has learned not to expect a proper celebration, but that tingle of hope in his chest simply refuses to be suppressed...





	A Day of Remembrance

Sometimes the Host wasn’t sure why he bothered to count this as the day he was born. It was the _Author’s_ birthday, not the Host’s. The Host wasn’t born. He was _manifested_ out of the Author’s power in a moment of desperation; he was a completely different man. Unfortunately, his inner Author didn’t seem to understand that. As soon as he woke, he felt that instinctive stir of emotion that told him today was special, something to be celebrated. He did his best to stifle it, since it would only lead to disappointment, but it kept perking up as he slipped out of bed and shrugged on his coat.

It was an ordinary day, he decided, and that was absolutely fi—

As he placed his hand on the doorframe, the Host stiffened, ducking his head against the approaching vision. His Foresight was kinder than usual, softer, spilling over him like warm water, and that made the pictures clearer and cleaner for him to make out. He opened his mouth to narrate, but the words caught in his throat as soon as he realized what he was Seeing:

_Dr. Iplier was rushing back and forth from the cabinets in his lab to Bim, waiting at the door with open arms to receive the packs of balloons._

_“How many packages did you buy, doc?”_

_“…Fifteen. You think that’s too much?”_

_“Of course not! You can never have enough balloons!”_

 

_Wilford was eagerly leaning over Bing’s shoulder, urging, “Put more glitter, would ya? It’s not colorful enough! It’s gotta be blinding!”_

_“You think he’ll actually get to see it, dude?” Bing questioned even as he acquiesced and reached for the jar of glitter, dumping the shimmering green dust onto the front of the card._

_“Wilford knows what’s best,” the older Ego chuckled knowingly. “I’ll make sure it gets into the right hands, don’t you worry!”_

 

_Smoke and frosting. “Oh, gee, I think I burnt the cake…” Silver Shepherd agonized as he waved the smoke away from the oven._

_“You kiddin’, Shepherd? We had a perfectly good store-bought one over here!” Ed exclaimed as he threw open the refrigerator to show off the evidence. “I got seventy-five percent off on it an’ everything and you try makin’ one of your own? Those mitts of yours aren’t made for baking!”_

_“W-Well, my cupcakes turned out okay,” Shepherd replied sheepishly. “I’ll just…start frosting those, I guess!”_

As the vision faded, the Host exhaled softly, the tingle of excitement kindling into a flame of gratitude. For the first time in a long, long time, he didn’t bother to stop it as he took half a step back, smoothing down his coat and running a hand through his hair to look a little more presentable.

Of course his friends had thought of him! He should never have doubted them; as of late, they’d gotten much better about celebrating birthdays and anniversaries of their video appearances. Why should his be any different? Bittersweet relief and hope welled warmly in his chest and despite himself, he giggled.

There wasn’t any reason to let them know that his Foresight had given them away; he’d be sure to act surprised on their behalf. Schooling his features into their natural grim pose and wiping a stray trickle of blood off on the back of his hand, he slipped out into the hall, hoping to go unnoticed. Perhaps, if he was careful, he would be able to avoid them until his Foresight let him know it was time for him to be summoned and surprised. That plan wasn’t meant to be, however; as soon as he heard the Host’s footsteps, Wilford spun away from Bing and fairly launched himself at him.

“Well, if it isn’t the late sleeper!” he crowed, nearly taking him off his feet as he tackled him around the shoulders.

“The Host bids good morning to Wilford,” he replied patiently, unable to resist the smile tugging at his face. Naturally Wilford couldn’t contain himself; whenever there was a party, he tended to let his anticipation spill over the entire day, bounce madly off the walls at the celebration itself, and then crash hard at the end of the night. “He wonders if he might have his morning coffee before—”

“Ahh, forget coffee, we’re havin’ _cake_ for breakfast!” Wilford cut him off gleefully, pushing him toward the dining room table. “And you’re just in time to pitch in and sign this card; I managed to finagle almost everyone else into signin’ it and Bing just forged the rest, but seein’ as we don’t know what your chicken scratch looks like, you gotta do it yourself. Just try not to get it bloody! Yandere already did. You put more glitter over that, right, Bing?”

Just like that, the Host’s smile faltered and the flame of gratitude lost a bit of its oxygen. That request didn’t make as much sense. He had planned on “overlooking” Bing and the card he was making, not signing it. Why would he sign it if it was _for_ him? Unless…

Warning bells rang quietly in the back of his mind as he let the mental images return for a split second, double-checking. There was no question that they were preparing for a party and it couldn’t be for anyone else; no one shared a birthday with him. It was too early to have a Valentine’s Day party, even by Wilford’s standards. That would likely come in a couple of days.

What had he missed?

Glancing between them in confusion and unease, the Host tuned out Bing and Wilford as they shot back and forth about the glitter, trying to process what Wilford was asking him to do, and as soon as there was a lull in their banter, he interjected cautiously, “Th-The Host would like to know who he’s addressing the card to.” That was the best way to get an honest answer—perhaps a little too honest, if the way Bing scoffed was any indication.

“Well, _c’mon_ , it’s only all over the internet, bro!” he exclaimed, half-rising from his chair and swiping a search engine screen into the air. “Right there under ‘Famous February Birthdays’, see? Wait…Oh, I guess you can’t see that, sorry. But my buddy Chase called me up and let me know that tomorrow is his creator Jack’s birthday! He’s gonna be busy tomorrow, so we’re having an early party for him! It’s gonna be totally lit!”

Within the first five minutes of leaving his room, he had already let himself hope…

Why hadn’t he Foreseen this? His visions had never been _selective_ before, had they? Had his own feelings dictated what he Saw and how he interpreted it? They were _never_ meant to do that. How could he have let them cloud his judgment? _Stupid, foolish, ignorant_ …

Stomach twisting into painful knots, he fairly collapsed into the chair Wilford pushed him toward, taking the pen Bing tossed at him and, after several seconds of hesitation, pressing it hard against the paper. He could feel the excess glitter catching underneath the pen nub and he tightened his grip against it, dragging it heavily along its course.

It was _nothing_. It was _fine_.

“Uhh…you better not tear that paper, bro; it took all morning,” Bing pointed out.

As soon as the last dark _t_ in “The Host” was crossed, he rose, knocking his chair over and not bothering to pick it back up as he brushed past Wilford, muttering acidly, “The Host will be in his room and would like to request that he not be disturbed. It’s the best gift he could receive from them today.”

He wanted to bite his tongue as soon as he made that last remark—even more so when Wilford only responded with a puzzled, “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“The Host won’t be going to the party; he has many other ways to occupy his time. He wants Wilford to convey his _best wishes_ to Jack.”

Slamming his door as an end note to those venomous words didn’t feel as good as the Host hoped it would; as soon as it was securely locked, he slumped against it, pressing his lips tightly together.

He shouldn’t be a victim about this. He should return to them and tell them the truth, tell them that they had overlooked his birthday and that he was disappointed, but then they would feel bad for being unprepared. They would celebrate him out of guilt and pity; knowing them, he would become a hasty add-on to Jack’s party that no one wanted. Not even he wanted that. They shouldn’t go to the trouble…but even while they laughed and joked and celebrated someone else, their knowledge that it was his birthday too would have been enough for him.

When was the last time they had celebrated it? Not since he was the Author, at least. That realization let a bitter noise escape his throat—a laugh or a sob, he didn’t know. It was no wonder they’d forgotten. The Author was no more. If anything, this should be a day of mourning _him_.

That was what it would be then. Even if it was forgotten by the others, he would have a day of remembrance. He remembered the Author waking up to the sweet smell of cake and smiling into his pillow before he even sat up because he knew that the others were waiting for him. He remembered the light, the sounds, the food melting in his mouth, the proud voices praising him, fondly calling him _their_ Author, and the hands playfully ruffling his hair and patting his back. He remembered how loved the Author had felt, for the first time since he was born.

He held onto that memory now as he drifted away from the door toward his desk chair, sinking into it and putting his head in his hands. Breathing deeply, he let his Hindsight replay it on a loop, occasionally hovering over the better parts, rememorizing their details. Every time he tried to imagine a scenario with the _Host_ in the picture, however, the memory blurred and his head started to ache.

It wasn’t meant to be for him. For him, it was an ordinary day, and if the blood flowed a little faster after this thought, no one else was there to notice.

The Host wasn’t sure how long he sat there, reminiscing on the better times, but by the time he was jostled out of his thoughts, his cheeks were wet, his throat was dry and his stomach was achingly raw. He never had gone back out for coffee and food, he realized distantly as he straightened in his chair, spinning it around when he heard a few quiet taps at the door.  

He was unaffected, the Host reminded himself fiercely. He would ask if the party for Jack was enjoyable and he would make sure his voice was steady and sure when he did so.

When his flash of Sight came, he realized that the visitor wasn’t at all who he’d expected it to be, so the question never made it out. The Host took half a step back, his fingers tightening on the edge of the door as he leaned a little more of his weight against it. The King of the Squirrels fidgeted, gnawing on his peanut buttery lower lip and not quite looking the Host in the face.

“…Hello,” he ventured, bobbing a brief bow before glancing over his shoulder. “You aren’t busy, are you?”

“Whether or not the Host is busy depends on what the King needs,” he answered warily.

“I don’t need anything, thank you. I wanted—well, I don’t know if anyone else remembered, but it’s your birthday. I expect you already know that,” the King assured him, a touch of shyness coloring his voice. “Or maybe you forgot too, since you haven’t come out of your room all day. I never got the chance to give you my gifts.”

The Host barely had a chance to react before the King had squared his shoulders and was brushing aside his cloak’s folds to push a well-sized rectangular box and a large, lumpy, lopsided package into his hands. The Host fumbled with them slightly, holding them tightly against his chest as he glanced between them and their giver.

“How…or w-why…did the King remember?” he stammered gingerly.

“It wasn’t hard,” the King brushed it off simply, though the Host sensed he was doing his best to hide the sadness in his words as he continued. “The Author was my best friend and I gave him a good deal of gifts when I celebrated his birthday. You…hm. You may not be him anymore, but you deserve the same. So I wish you a kingly birthday, Host.” That said, he swept another bow, deeper and more graceful, before spinning on his heel and striding down the hall, no doubt toward the backdoor.

The Host stayed where he was for several seconds, processing what had just happened, and then he lowered his head over the box and the package, huffing lightly in disbelief. He barely registered the trip back to his chair, more focused on choosing which gift to open first. Eventually he opted for the lumpy bundle, twirling the ribbon around his fingers a few times before tugging it loose.

Into his lap spilled a thick scarf, made of real fur, if his Sight wasn’t deceiving him. That did leave him to wonder where the fur had come from; it wasn’t from the squirrels, surely! It didn’t matter; the scarf was _astonishingly_ soft as he picked it up, automatically narrating his appreciation for it to the empty room. He couldn’t resist lightly nuzzling his cheek against it before wrapping it loosely around his neck and turning his attention to the box.

From the sound of it, the box was filled with sheaves of paper, he noted in puzzlement. As soon as his fingers brushed the top sheet, however, Hindsight struck in full force. _The King and the Author. The King and his “scribe”, bent over their latest story, bickering over the edits to be made. Hands with dramatic gestures, rubbing tense shoulders, offering food after hours of work, dragging him outside into the fresh air._

_“Bring your bat, Author, and I’ll pitch for you! We’ll get your blood pumping and your brain bursting with ideas again in no time!”_

_“Heh. What would I do without you?”_

_So many stories. So many characters poured onto the pages by the Author and given life through the King’s reading. He read late into the night—their fairytales. What was a King without a fairytale? What was a tale without an Author?_

_Surprised laughter. Needed warmth. Unlikely friendship. Unexpected care._

The Host took a shuddering breath as his Sight faded, returning him to his room and letting the nostalgia fade into a lump in the back of his throat. Swallowing around it, he returned the lid to the box and slid it to the edge of his desk. It would stay there until he was prepared to look through the memories again. It was a beautiful gift.

“I see I wasn’t the only one thinking of you today.”

Any hope that the lump in his throat would ease was promptly quelled by that voice. Again the Host spun his chair around, rising before it had even stopped its motion.

“I don’t suppose this has been a particularly happy birthday for you,” Dark mused aloud, his tone bordering dangerously on the anger he’d worked meticulously to suppress. “Seeing as only _one_ of the others _remembered_ it.”

Inhaling deeply, the Host took a step closer; he could feel Dark’s aura stirring, tickling his exposed skin as it twitched in agitation. He knew the anger was on his behalf, but he offered a slight smile against it.

“Thanks to the King’s gifts and Dark’s timely arrival, the Host holds out some hope that his birthday _evening_ will be better than the day itself.”

Though he wasn’t using his Sight at the moment, he could hear Dark forcing a smile in return as he hummed in agreement. After a beat of silence, Dark cleared his throat, drawing closer and wrapping his arms snugly around the Host’s shoulders for a long series of seconds. Taken aback by the hug but unprotesting, the Host leaned into the contact until Dark was the first to withdraw. As soon as he did, the Host perked up, pulling his new scarf in closer around his neck against the unexpected chill of the evening air as he Looked around.

“Oh…Dark has taken them to their favorite walking route,” he realized with a wry laugh, shaking his head.

“I thought it was appropriate. We do come here most often when the others are otherwise occupied, and since they’re more than happy gallivanting around with the Septic Egos…”

“Dark ought to warn the Host next time before transporting him somewhere,” the Host pointed out, doing his best not to let on how grateful he was for the consideration—for any of this. “If he’d pulled away prematurely, he could have ended up in two places at once and that would be _distinctly_ unpleasant.”

“As if you had any intention of pulling away,” Dark shot back just as easily, sliding an arm through his and pulling him into an easy stroll. “Now allow me to take you wherever you’d like to go for dinner. I suspect you haven’t eaten.”

How had he—? The Host stopped himself mid-question, ducking his head to hide a grin. Of course his friend had thought of it. He should never have doubted him.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Host <3


End file.
